


Candidate Move

by ordinarily (tofty)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, OFC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam/Dean, possible OMC or OFC. S2-ish.  The prank war has escalated to a more personal level.  Things turn nasty (in every sense) when the games get sexual, but damned if either boy will be the first to cry uncle... or brother.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candidate Move

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round six of the blindfold kink meme for the summary prompt, intended as an interstitial bridge between the angst and worry at the end of Born Under a Bad Sign and the jangly disharmony of Tall Tales. Ignore the fact that Sam and Dean could not possibly have gotten tattoos this soon after BuaBS, and you’re halfway there.

In retrospect, it maybe wasn’t the best idea Dean had ever had. But it was the only idea he’d had, two hours outside of Sioux Falls, Bobby’s charm an unfamiliar dead weight against his chest. Sam had fallen into silence, slipping further away with each mile spun away under the car wheels, and Dean had felt them spinning apart, inch by inch. So he’d pulled them off the road and into a motel, hadn’t even known where they were, hadn’t known where they were headed next, and that night, he’d set every alarm they had, six different phones and a laptop, to wake Sam every two hours with the loudest possible version of that goddamned Bruce Hornsby song Sam had loved when he was four. 

He’d only wanted to break the ice, but he hadn’t taken Sam’s latent win-or-die streak into account, and two days, all of Dean’s clothes, a carefully-salted tube of toothpaste, and a soap dispenser full of red food coloring later, they haven’t gotten farther than Galesburg, and he’s ready to admit that he may have gone wrong in Minnesota, when he set the first alarm.

He’ll only admit it to himself, though.

:::

It’s in Galesburg that Sam finally gets sidetracked from Mission Make Dean’s Life Miserable by Tiny Degrees. Dean’s carefully inspecting his doughnut for signs of tampering while Sam stretches out in his chair in a patch of sunlight, websurfing. Just as he’s ready to dive in -- too hungry to truly care what the glaze is made out of -- Sam says, “Hey, Dean, I’ve been thinking about these charms.”

Dean takes a small bite. It tastes like ordinary doughnut, so he takes a second, much bigger bite before swallowing the first, and, silenced, waves his hand in an expansive _go ahead_ gesture. 

Sam looks at him in disgust for a moment before continuing. “So I’ve been thinking that the charms aren’t gonna be our best defense. They’ll get us through a tight spot, sure, but someday, they’re gonna break in a fight or we’ll be in the shower or something, and we’re gonna be blindsided.”

That sounds about right to Dean, considering how often they’ve been blindsided over the past couple of years. Over their lives, really. “So what’s your solution, Urkel?” he asks, and stuffs the rest of the doughnut into his mouth for the pleasure of watching Sam’s face scrunch up again. Sam, always predictable when it comes to this shit, scrunches his face up again.

He doesn’t say anything, though, just turns the laptop so Dean can see the screen, displaying an image that resembling a flaring sun with a pentagram set neatly into the center. “What about something like this?” 

“Uh, what about it?” Dean asks, confused. “What do we do with it?”

Sam gives Dean his best God-I-pity-you-tiny-mortals smile. “We get it imprinted on our _skin_ with _needles_ , dumbass.”

Dean leans in closer. “Oh, tattoos. Why didn’t you say? And this is an antiposession symbol?.” 

“Obviously,” says Sam. “A powerful one. I figure we can augment it later, if we need to, but we can get these quick, and they’ll keep us a damn sight safer than Bobby’s charms. And we can keep the charms to give to other people when we need to.”

It’s a good idea, creative and effective, but it’s not good for Sam to let his occasional bursts of true genius go to his head, so all Dean says is, “ _Augment_ , that your word of the day?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Indianapolis is a couple hours down the road. They probably have a few decent places there. We’ll make the drive this morning and have ‘em by nightfall, how’s that?”

“Sounds good,” says Sam, then bites his lip as as Dean takes a second doughnut. “Uh, listen, you might not want to eat that.”

“Why?” Dean peers more closely at it.

“Trust me,” says Sam, “put it back. We can stop for breakfast on our way out of town.”

Dean puts the doughnut back, resolved not to think about the fact that he’s already eaten one. Best not to know what Sam did to them.

:::

Their tattooist, Avery, is cute, if you like the SuicideGirls vibe: full sleeve tattoo down her left arm, long brown braids, square-cut bangs, smoker’s voice, ragged graying Runaways tee shirt that’s seen a whole lot of better days but shows off her tight little body really well. And Dean likes both the shirt and the shape of the girl underneath it, and the SuicideGirls vibe works as well for him as most and a lot better than some, so he turns on the charm while she runs Sam’s printout through the transfer machine thing, until she finally nudges his ankle with her boot and whispers, “You know, you’re fifty kinds of cute for sure, but your boyfriend’s not looking too happy over there, so maybe you better cool your jets before he beats the shit out of both of us, okay?”

Dean looks over at Sam, his tightened lips and his folded arms, and something, most likely the memory of this morning’s doughnuts, has him smiling his very most innocent smile at Sam and saying, in a voice definitely loud enough for all three of them to hear, “Nah, Sammy over there looks like a jealous douche, Avery, but the truth is that he’s pretty adventurous, aren’t you, darlin’?”

And he’s expecting Sam to pick up and walk out, to tighten up, to snap at both of them, something within his normal range of response, but Sam glares for a couple of seconds before he deliberately loosens up -- Dean can practically see him commanding each muscle in turn to relax -- and saying, in this low, smoky voice Dean’s never actually heard out of his brother’s mouth before, “You know it, babe. Up for anything, any time.”

Avery spins in her chair, and they both spend a long moment staring consideringly at Sam. He returns their looks with interest and licks his lips. Avery inhales deeply through her nose before turning back to the transfer machine thing, and Dean--

Dean didn’t know his uptight, dorky little brother had it in him. He’s actually kind of impressed.

:::

Sam goes first. There’s a brief struggle for dominance, at first, before they settle it with a quick rock-paper-scissors (Avery observing in annoyance and amusement) which Sam inevitably wins, and he settles into the chair with a smug look on his face. Dean, still feeling ornery, lets them get Sam prepped and settled into it, lets Sam lean back and try to relax, before he says, in the lowest, most purring sex-on-legs voice at his disposal, “God, Sam, you look unbelievably _hot_ right now.”

Sam stiffens, and Avery shoots him a glare over Sam’s bare torso. “Listen, Casanova, no jolting allowed. If you and Sam can’t keep from egging each other on while you’re in the same room together, I’ll take him into a private room and finish there. No matter how hot the idea of you guys getting off on each other is, nobody fucks with my rhythm, okay?”

Getting off on each other, getting over on each other, Dean guesses it’s looking about the same to Avery right about now. He shrugs easily. “You’re the boss, Boss. I’m staying quiet, nothing but looking from here on out.”

Avery eyes him for a second longer, and something in his face must alert her to the fact that he’s somehow fucking around. “And I won’t tattoo _you_ at all. I’m taking you at your word here. You better take me at mine.”

Dean holds up his hands. “Honest, I won’t say anything.”

He holds to his word, too, as Avery draws the outline and slowly inks it in. Not a word, just a level stare lasered straight at Sam for the entire process. Sam stays motionless, but it’s clearly an effort, under Dean’s unwavering gaze. Even Avery knows it; she directs a quick look at Dean every now and then, but finding nothing she can really get a handle on -- Dean’s not disobeying her, and Sam’s not moving -- she works steadily on, and Dean gets to stay in the room and keep staring. He doesn’t stop himself from directing the occasional smirk at Sam, when Avery’s not looking, because he can.

On the whole, Dean’s never been a big fan of subtlety. Given a choice, he’ll choose the direct route. But there’s no denying it, sometimes subtlety _works_ , and seeing Sam valiantly trying not to squirm in the chair, it’s plain that this is one of those times.

When they’re finished, though, after Avery’s taped Sam up and given him his aftercare instructions, Dean’s only now starting to worry about retribution, and she says thoughtfully, “Yeah, you know, I think I’ll take you into the back room after all, Dean.” Dean wonders if the universe might be on his side for once in his life.

Sam looks up from where he’s fiddling with the edges of his dressing, smoothing down tape before pulling on his t-shirt. “No way, man. I had to sit still with you watching. Turnabout’s fair play.”

Avery looks surprised, and her smile’s wry. “Oh, I didn’t mean we’d go without you, Sam. But I think you guys are being R-rated for a weekday mid-afternoon, you know? We’ll take this out of the front room in case someone else comes in.”

Or maybe the universe isn’t on his side, after all.

:::

The universe is definitely not on his side. Sam, the shit, has a mean retaliatory hot stare going for him, and from this end, it’s really, really uncomfortable. Dean tries to distract himself at first by staring at Avery’s chest, since it’s right there at eye level, and all, but the angle’s not good and her arms keep getting in the way. Next, he tries flirtation, but even though she doesn’t come right out and say it again, it’s clear she really _doesn’t_ want people to fuck with her while she’s working. She answers him in single words and _hmmm_ s until, somewhat daunted by her Great Wall of Unresponsiveness, he falls silent again, prey to Sam’s ruthless eyeballing.

Eventually, settled into the chair and concentrating on the business at hand, he realizes two things in quick succession: first, that he’s kinda turned on by the sharp buzz of the needle against and under his skin, and second, that Sam’s noticed. His hot stares are now divided pretty much equally between Dean’s chest and his crotch, and every now and then he directs a look of what is obviously unadulterated, unrepentant _glee_ at Dean. Sam’s this minute discovered something about Dean at the exact same time that Dean himself has realized it, and as always, he’s fully prepared to use his knowledge against Dean. And Dean’s got no defense against this, no time to work up any protective barriers. Which means that Dean is in _trouble_. 

Sam doesn’t actually press his advantage, though, for a while, just keeps watching, and watching, and freaking _watching_. The suspense is killing Dean, and Sam knows it (which is surely the point; Sam’s always been kind of a champ at playing the waiting game). Hell, Avery probably knows it too. It seems impossible that she could be in the same room and not pick up on it. It’s one of those superconcentrated chess matches Sam used to love to play with his geek squad buds in high school all over again: long, long minutes staring at the board, planning his next move, imagining all possible countermoves, always with a winning endgame in mind.

Shit.

Finally, every scenario apparently worked out in his giant head to his satisfaction, Sam makes his move. “Dean,” he says, in that same deep voice Dean heard for the first time an hour ago. “Dean, Christ, I can’t wait to get you to the motel. Want me to pin you down? Think we’d both have fun with that.” He steps forward and leans right over Dean, inches from both his and Avery’s faces, and puts his palm flat on Dean’s upper thigh. “Want to be tortured till you scream tonight? I think you do.” 

Dean closes his eyes for a second, considering his counterstrategy. “Yeah, baby,” he breathes, finally opening his eyes to fasten them right onto Sam’s. “I really do.” 

“Yeah,” says Sam. “I know you do.” He doesn’t look away. Neither does Dean. Neither of them wants to lose.

It’s Avery who breaks the stalemate. “Okay, now that we’ve got that decided,” she says, breathless herself, though her hand’s steady as it dips the needle into the black ink, “can we get back to the job at hand here?” Not too much longer and you can fuck each other into next week, but you gotta hold it together for a while longer.”

Sam straightens up and clears his throat. “Sure. Uh, sorry about that.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Avery says cheerfully. “You boys are the best thing to happen to me in a while. Believe it or not, being a tattoo artist isn’t always a glamour gig.”

“I can imagine,” says Dean, who can think of a few people whose bare skin he really wouldn’t want to see; it’s almost enough to kill his erection. And then something occurs to him. “Hey, Sam’s allowed to talk and I’m not? How come Sam doesn’t get a lecture? How come you’re not threatening to kick him out of the room?”

Avery pauses for a second, looking up from Dean’s chest. She’s considering his question seriously. “Well, for one thing, Sam’s a damn sight twitchier than you are. You’re much better at keeping still. For another thing, he totally seems to be the long-suffering one--”

“Hey!” says Dean, while Sam starts laughing. Goddamn Sammy and his sweet poker face.

“Yeah,” says Sam raising his eyebrows at Dean. “ _Obviously_ I am--”

Avery points at Sam. “Don’t try my patience, Mister,” she warns him. “I’ll absolutely kick you out if I gotta, and don’t think I can’t do it ‘cause you’re bigger than me.”

Sam steps back. “Gotcha. No patience-trying, duly noted.”

Avery stares him a step closer to sober, and then turns to Dean. “Okay, then, as long as we understand each other,” she says, and reapplies her burning, crazymaking needle to Dean’s pec. Dean opts for not looking at Sam at all, eyes half-closed, drifting out into the buzz, for the time they have left. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and breathes.

He doesn’t really refocus until she’s smearing ointment over his tender skin. He takes one more long smooth breath before opening his eyes, and finds himself staring into Sam’s face, unreadable and strange this close up. 

Avery tapes the dressing down gently and pushes her rolling chair away from the chair. “Okay, boys, all done. You’re free to go, but before I do, I have two small requests.”

Dean blinks his heavy eyelids, sits up straight, and turns to Avery. “Shoot, sweetheart.”

“First, I want to get a photo of you two, together, to put on the gallery wall.”

Sam clears his throat and speaks up. “That’s fine, as long as you shoot us from the neck down.” They’re way too close to St. Louis and Milwaukee to post photos.

“Okay, I get you. Seems a shame not to put your pretty faces up there, but I’m good with that.”

“So what’s your second request?” Dean asks.

“Uh,” Avery says. Under the makeup, he can see a faint flush on her cheeks. “Remember how Sam said you were up for anything, anytime? You mean that?” 

Dean cuts his eyes to Sam and finds Sam doing the same to him. “Depends,” he says. “What are you thinking?”

“Here, now. I’ve been sitting in a room with you guys eyefucking each other for the whole afternoon, and I want to get a taste of how it plays out, even if it’s _only_ a taste. Don’t want to participate -- got a girl at home who wouldn’t be all that happy if I did -- but I do want to watch. You up for that? It’s totally okay if you’re not -- just say the word, and I’ll back off.”

Dean feels a sick twist low in his stomach. He’s not quite sure whether it’s horror or arousal (or both), and he really, really doesn’t want to poke at it too hard. He’s ready to voice a firm but kind _no_ of the sort that’ll get them back to the motel no worse off than they are right now, but he catches Sam out of the corner of his eye, pauses, and turns more fully toward him to catch his expression straight on.

Sam’s fucking _challenging_ him. If they were facing each other over that geek-squad chessboard, Sam’d be getting ready for the checkmate, waiting for him to walk right into the trap that wins him the game, and since Dean doesn’t think four moves ahead, ever, he can’t even tell what move Sam expects him to make or wants him to make, which is the winning move or which the losing move.

The moment spins out endlessly in front of him, and this really is starting to feel like a lose-lose situation, to Dean. They stay, and something big is going to happen, something that’ll change everything, for better or for worse. They leave, and Dean will never hear the end of it. They’ll be eighty, and Sam’ll be sitting in his rocking chair on the Home for Retired Hunters porch, fondly reminiscing about that one time Dean pussied out on their game of Gay Incestuous Chicken in truly epic style.

But Dean guesses all this worrying is pointless, since they both know he’s never refused a dare from Sam. He takes a single step forward, puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, right above Sam’s fresh tattoo, thumb on Sam’s collarbone, stroking over the flannel, over the prominent bone underneath. “Sam?” he asks, meeting the challenge as stubbornly as he can. Maybe this is where the story ends. _Please, Sammy, back the hell down, just once_ , he thinks.

Sam doesn’t. Instead, he grips Dean’s wrist, fingers bruising and digging into the soft palm-side skin. Sam breaks eye contact for a second and glances over at Avery, and Dean does too. Avery’s sitting stretched out in her chair with he legs crossed in front of her, small but avid smile on her face. “Don’t mind me,” she says with raised eyebrows. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Dean thinks that might be easier said than done, when she’s the catalyst that got them to this point in the first place, but Dean faces Sam, leans forward, and then they’re touching, mouths brushing, only the barest of contact, and Sam moves his hands to the crown of Dean’s head and opens his mouth, and Dean’s opening his mouth too, no conscious decision on his part, opening up to the wet slide of Sam’s tongue against his, and he mirrors the gesture, tasting the roof of Sam’s mouth, the rough spot where Sam bit his cheek at lunch. 

And then, then there’s a flash of white light behind his eyes and Dean’s brain and his heart are racing, adrenaline is pumping through him, he’s operating on pure hunter’s instinct, and it takes him long seconds to hear Sam’s mumbling over the roaring in his ears, and a couple more to understand what he’s saying. “Dean, Dean. Dean.” That repetition reminds Dean of the Sammy who used to follow him to school, following him so close he’d step on Dean’s heels, and Dean rears back an inch or two, slammed back into his own head, reeling from the sensory overload. But Sam’s still gripping him with clenched fingers, holding him firmly in place. Dean can feel Sam’s fingertips digging into his scalp. “Dean, relax, it’s okay.” His lips touch Dean’s again, briefly, and he continues, in that silky-low voice that only the two of them can even hear. “Saw you getting off on that needle, wanna get you there again now, can we, can we --” Sam trails off into Dean’s mouth, tongue lapping out again “Saw you biting down, here --” his tongue barely touches Dean’s lower lip, then he leans in, taking a second to share a breath or two -- “and I wanted to do it to you, for you.” He bites Dean’s lip, hard enough to draw blood, and fuck if Dean doesn’t make an embarrassing involuntary noise and lean in for more.

Sam gives it to him. He sucks the smear of blood off Dean’s lip, then walks slowly to the chair, spins them so that he can sit, and pulls Dean’s leg across his, so that Dean’s straddling him in an awkward, widelegged sprawl. “C’mon, sit,” he says, voice barely audible, pulling Dean down, and Dean goes, settling his weight onto Sam’s thighs with a movement that has Sam’s spine arching. “Yeah, oh, yeah,” he says, and Dean knows exactly how he feels. The tightness of his jeans around his balls, the pressure of Sam’s legs, the friction of the tiny movements they’re both making, all those things could have him shooting in a couple of minutes, if they stayed right here, doing this.

Sam’s got other ideas, though, because his fingers are fumbling for the button of his own jeans. “Want to see you, Dean,” he pants, “need to see you,” and Dean’s reaching for his waistband as Sam pulls his cock out through the slit in his boxers, then pushes Dean’s hands out of his way to do it himself. “Too slow,” he says, as he pulls the zipper down and raises his eyes to Dean’s. “No underwear?”

Dean leans back to grasp Sam’s knees, giving Sam room to pull his dick out in turn. It’s a few seconds before he can respond. “Yeah, asshole, remember, you washed all my clothes in starch? Can’t wear ‘em again ‘til we get to a laundromat.”

Sam laughs shortly and squeezes him. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “That was pretty funny.” It really wasn’t, but before Dean can retort, Sam grips their dicks together and strokes slowly down and Dean loses track of the conversation. The feel of Sam’s skin surrounding him has him closing his eyes. “This is better, though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean gasps, eyes still shut. “This is good.” 

Sam squeezes again, this time tighter, pulling a strangled sound and a burble of precome from Dean. “You like that, Dean? Want me to --” he squeezes again, even tighter, and pushes his other hand into Dean’s jeans, rubbing against the his balls with definitely too much pressure. Dean feels that sharp flash of agony shuddering all the way up his spine, pulsing through his veins, and arches his own back.

“You looked so amazing, while she was inking you, you know that? Lost in your head and that needle --” they both gasp as his hand twists -- “and I wanted to be there with you, wanted to be in as deep in you as you were, under your skin, so far in that no one could ever find me --” he breaks off for a minute and Dean can’t think about anything else but Sam’s hands as he strokes harder, faster, squeezes Dean’s balls again in farewell, and inches his fingers further in. “You look even more amazing now, Dean. I want to fuck you so bad, I’d give it to you hard as you wanted it, hard as we both could stand. I’d be as far into you as I want you in me, I’d fuck you till you couldn’t feel anything but my dick inside you, fuck you till you -- till --” Sam shudders and gives it up, and Dean can feel Sam’s come slicking them both, and Dean’s close, so close, as Sam strokes him wet and scrapes his dry fingernail not-too-gently across the tight pucker of his hole, and Dean’s trapping Sam’s hands between them and in his jeans as he lets go his deathgrip on Sam’s knees to lean forward and let Sam bite his way into his mouth again, and Dean comes too, then, hard, until it there’s nothing left inside him, everything pouring out of the hollowed-out shell of his body and onto Sam, and, and, Jesus _Christ_ \--

A minute or twenty minutes later, his face is mashed against Sam’s neck, and Sam’s still scraping, very lightly, around his rim, still squeezing his dick, rhythmically. It hurts, enough that his breath’s catching with each squeeze, but it’s so good it’s hard to think about anything else, and he closes his eyes and tries to keep his brain offline a few seconds longer, because Sam’s with him, and he’s wholly Sam and no one else. He’s nuzzling at Dean’s ear and occasionally pulling at the lobe with his teeth, and they’re on a _chair_ together and everything’s _different_ and he doesn’t know how to deal with any of it.

He opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is Avery’s empty chair -- he guesses it turned out to be easier to forget her eyes on them than he’d thought -- and for some reason, that throws him harder than seeing Avery watching would have. He twists, staggers, and ends up barely keeping himself from sprawling on the floor, Sam’s hand trapped halfway inside his jeans and pulling him half out of the chair, too. 

“Hey, watch it!” Sam snaps, yanking his hand out hard enough to set Dean’s teeth, and hisses himself as the heel of his hand scrapes against Dean’s zipper.

“Watch it yourself,” Dean snarls, refastening as fast as he can manage with shaking hands, as Sam does the same. Dean grabs his shirt, ready to be out of this room and out of this city, to be fucking _gone_.

“Jesus, at least put your shirt on,” says Sam, climbing out of the chair. Dean turns back to look at him. Sam’s own shirts are straight and buttoned. Dean doesn’t think he was ever actually _un_ buttoned, but his fingers know the feel of Sam’s skin; he must have thrust his hands up underneath them, and okay, he’s starting to feel sick now.

He doesn’t answer, just leaves the room shirtless with Sam right behind him. Avery’s there in the main room, reading a magazine in the quiet late afternoon light, and Sam brushes past Dean to tap the pages in front of her. “You left,” he says mildly to her when she looks up, as though she’d left the room during a boring television show and not left Sam and Dean getting each other  
off.

Avery’s smile encompasses both of them. “Well, I was there for most of it,” she says, “and thanks for that, by the way, you just made, like, my _year_ , but the end seemed kinda private, so I left you to that part.”

“Good call,” says Sam, putting his arm around Dean and giving him a look Dean can’t quite interpret, then he leans forward to talk to Avery about the photo for the gallery wall. His hand’s resting on Dean’s hip, loosely enough that Dean can duck out if he wants. Dean can’t decide if he wants, or not. He can’t decide what his next move is.

Dean’s got GPS in his phone, the sure sense of direction born of a lifetime of travel, and he’s feeling completely adrift, spinning in aimless circles. If this was ever a game, he thinks he’s lost it, but he doesn’t even know yet by how much, doesn’t know how humiliating or punishing the loss is going to be. For Christ’s sake, he doesn’t even know if any of this _is_ a fucking game, any more. 

He watches Sam, the brother whose hand he’s just come all over and whose life he’s trying to save, and knows that he’s not especially looking forward to finding out any of those answers, and when Sam meets his eyes, he’s pretty sure that Sam’s feeling the exact same way.


End file.
